Akatsuki
by hearts and stars
Summary: Glimpse at the inner most thoughts of members.


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Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

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Pairing: Akatsuki

Rating: T

Words: 1424

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Itachi  
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Because the killing filled the void.

He did it to test himself. To test his capacity; to test the actual strength of the clan. It was a disappointment.

From nearly day one, he was a prodigy. The best, but not nearly enough. They were power starved and quenched their thirst through him.

He felt his humanity die slowly the stronger he got. By his first kill- he was gone.

The longer he stayed in the compound, the more he noticed. He knew their arrogance had made them greedy and ignorant. He knew they were selfish, pride filled and thought their safety was automatically insured. And he knew they were weak.

A dark tunnel filled with his success and accomplishment that really meant nothing but his superiority above the rest of the clan; and when he thought about it, he wasn't really capable of anything they weren't; and that them having the Sharingon, subsequently brought down the significance of his own.

So in order to prove his apparent _worth_- because now he really was the greatest of the Uchiha clan- he killed them.

And in the light of the moment, he decided to keep Sasuke alive to remind him of his failures and the weakness of the clan before and after him. And that in killing them all, he ensured their belief that the Uchiha really was the strongest, smartest shinobi race.

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Deidara  
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Because art was his _life._

Art was his life as much as his life _was_ art. Before all this, before…Akatsuki, he had been happy. Well, relatively happy at least.

It's not like he planned to be a mass murderer all his life, it just ended up this way. This is what it took to accomplish his dream. It was amazing how different the lifestyle of a terrorist to the life of a… well….terrorist was.

He used to fly through the clouds, not a care in the world; creating art and demolishing whatever he pleased.

Now it was him and Master Sasori-Danna traveling randomly and periodically killing civilians with horrible sleeping conditions.

It wasn't the thrill of the kill or even the mutual respect and fear he received now; it was the split second of beauty he saw in it. The spectacular explosion was his masterpiece, and he loved it because it was something that _he_ imagined, and _he_ created, and _he_ destroyed.

His canvas was every living thing, for even ugly things could have their measure of beauty in his hands.

He loved the building building building until the final blast that filled his eyes and ears and _body_ before it drifted away on the wind and washed away with the tide. He learned to appreciate that moment of sheer ecstasy where it was nothing but _him_ in the moment: creating, conquering, destroying.

Because art was his life.

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Kisame  
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Because he felt something else.

Not the cold despair that choked his lungs and kept him from sleep. Not the lashes and pains that still flared up from time to time; just the hatred and shame that fueled his movements.

He loved it when they screamed. He loved it when they screamed because when they were screaming they weren't crying. When they ran and dodged they weren't too afraid to make a move. He felt the thrill of the chase and let it consume him until he became the demon the ruled him.

He liked to mess them up, badly; but only if they screamed.

When they wouldn't be waiting for the next hit, the next punch, the next kick, they wouldn't be mocking and ridiculing him- because he was strong now- he was _power._

Disemboweling, ripping, tearing, slicing- but only if they screamed; if they begged he couldn't do it. A snap to the neck solved this problem but their tear filled gasps would never leave him.

Each sob and cry of_ 'stop!' _reminded him of his past; reminded him of the beatings and pain filled years of blackness. So he killed, killed them mercilessly and horribly because he would not be reminded of his past. Not ever.

So he killed killed killed killed killed…

Because when he was killing, he felt something different.

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Hidan  
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Because Hidan was afraid.

He was afraid that Kakuzu was right all along: that maybe his religion really _was_ bogus, and that if there was a God, he had sure as hell turned his back on them.

He was afraid that it may just be a bloodline limit. He was terrified when he remembered his families slaughter; proof that something out there _could_ kill him.

More than anything, he was afraid of an empty existence. He didn't want it all to be fake- a lie- so he killed and sacrificed and prayed. Because if there was a God-

_Jashin-sama_

-and a Heaven-

_Please_

If there was a God and a Heaven, he was sure as hell getting in.

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Sasori  
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Because _true_ art was eternal.

He was beautiful- flawless. An artist devoted literally mind, body and soul to his work.

He saw beauty fade when he was young. Watched things wither then die, their essence swallowed so quickly and perish. He had understood even then what art really was.

He remembers his mother say once that pain was beauty, and one could only strive with the other. How right she was.

He watched many die while he remained the ever eternal youth. It did not take long for him to decide that some beauty did not deserve to fade with time; creeping down into an endless sink hole.

So he chose the ones who caught his eye and killed and preserved them so that their beauty might last a little longer and not fade so fast.

And when pondered upon, he realized human nature was quite appalling, but he could make something beautiful from it.

Something lovely and entrancing, elegant, _everlasting._

Because true art was eternal.

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Konan  
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Because life was like paper.

All too easy to mark up, and shredding it was too much fun. Each mistake is like a crease, and if creased enough, it becomes easier and easier to tear.

_Her_ life was like paper; or maybe a like an empty book. Smooth plain pages with the occasional dog-eared corner. A tattered hard cover where her life, her hopes and dreams and mistakes soaked into the blank sheets…her fears.

Each time she erupted into a flurry of white, a small piece of her got locked away. She remembered running through flowered fields, but that was so long ago.

A shinobis' life had taken its toll on her, and she could see it in _their_ eyes too.

The exhaustion hidden in shallow waters, the last bits of compassion and human broke away in chunks all too quickly.

She remembered dreaming of weddings and first kisses- giggling over boys, gossamer dresses with pretty babies to sing to.

Yes, life really was like paper; because after being destroyed, it was all too easy to let it go on without you than to try piece it together again.

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Pein  
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Because they were willing to die.

They were pawns- would follow him to the end of the earth because deep down they were looking for what they never had.

A place to be free; where they weren't gods and demons and were needed and not punished. A place were they were not cursed or evil or held higher on a mountain disguised as a pedestal higher and higher as a prodigy. Where they could be themselves in a familiar environment.

It all worked for him.

He was an intelligent man, as well as many other things. He knew this is what they yearned for- so he offered it to them. A safe house, their own personal haven. Like fish to baited hooks they bit, and he had what he needed.

Soldiers: his martyrs willing to die for his cause. A game filled with blood and screams where _they_ thrived, where he was king and they were at his command and no matter what- the next to worthless pawn is needed to win the game.

His game.

Because they were willing to die.

Fin.

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End file.
